


Proverbs 6:16-19

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, Hauntings, Implied Possession, M/M, Murder, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Southern Gothic AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: The house creaks and groans while Kilana slips on her boots, lacing them tight.  Under each step, the floor squeaks loudly, loud enough that she thinks she might wake Keevan.But he doesn’t stir.Kilana steps out of the house, wrapping her arms around her. She’d thought maybe being outside in the humid heat would warm her up, but instead her blood runs cold.





	Proverbs 6:16-19

**Author's Note:**

> Please give a hand to spyrograph for helping me fine-tune some of this piece and also go read his things.

Kilana hates him. She lays awake tonight, listening to the sounds of Keevan and Weyoun in the living room, Keevan giving muffled moans and breathy sighs and Weyoun quiet as ever. Since he's stumbled down the dirt road into their lives, she's hated Weyoun. He never speaks, always staring with too-wide, too-intense eyes. It’s like he knows something she doesn’t. He does chores, sure, but always sneaks off when the sun goes down, returning to a cold supper that Keevan insists on leaving out for his plaything.

Kilana thinks he might be something else, something not like her and Keevan. She's never seen him eat (though Keevan's assured her he does, he’s just shy and waits until she goes out every night to make sure the hens are locked up) and he never sweats (odd, considering the constant heat and humidity that leave her and Keevan as soaked by mid-morning, as if they've crawled out of the swamp) and he never bleeds (though Keevan tells her she's welcome to stick her blade under his skin to try and coax him to bleed if she’s so worried).

Keevan makes a stifled grunt, signalling he's done with the strange Vorta. 

There's the rustle of clothing, light steps on the sunken wood floor, and Keevan sinks into bed beside her. He can't see she has her eyes open in the dark, no way of knowing that she knows about Keevan's odd affair.

The front door creaks open, the screen door screaming even louder, slamming closed. She doors of the barn outside—the old building covered in mold, dripping it off every edge, the mold holding the rotten wood together more than the rusted nails. There's noises from the barn but Keevan's too deeply asleep to care leaving Kilana to listen to the howling, the rattling, all coming from the barn. It's startled off the wildlife, louder and more haunting.

* * *

She has a routine. Every night at sunset she peels the vegetables on the porch, dragging a chair out onto the uneven porch. Tonight, it's potatoes, the skins peeled away in a single neat spiral.

Weyoun's settled on the porch beside her, plucking those skins and tossing them off the porch, unconcerned with the mess. 

Kilana thinks about how easy it would be to sink her knife into Weyoun's throat, dig the rusted metal into pale—nearly translucent—skin. He looks up at her with wide violet eyes, as if he knows what she's thinking. It makes her pause, just watching him.

Satisfied with something, Weyoun gets to his feed, striding off across the yard and into the barn. Through the open door, Kilana watches the old one-eyed tomcat slink out of the shadows, dark and soft body curling up in Weyoun's lap. The cat's been around the property longer than the Vorta, leaving chewed mice and disemboweled birds under the porch to rot and make the place reek of death.

But the cat comes to Weyoun. He's the only one it'll purr for.

The old tomcat stretches his front paws, extending his claws into the dirt floor of the barn, raking through it. 

Fixing his one yellow eye on Kilana, the cat curls back up, watching her.

* * *

Keevan's decided to spend the night with her, his hands unfastening the buttons of her black blouse, pushing the fabric off her shoulders. She shoves him down onto the bed, glaring at him. His smile is easy, too easy, and it's so tempting to slap the smile off his face. Instead, Kilana strips him down, Keevan's mouth pressing to any place he can: her breasts, her belly, her thighs, her wrist. 

But she's not satisfied until she's made sure Keevan's too well-fucked to leave, her short, scrubbed nails digging deep into his skin, clawing him hard enough to draw blood.

Only once he's sleeping deeply, she watches him, the rise and fall of his scratched, bleeding chest, deep violet oozing over his ribs.

Kilana leaves him there, bleeding onto the sheets. She pulls on a nightgown to cover herself, knowing he'll be fine. Sore, but fine.

She goes to wash herself off, drawing cool water out of the well. But something makes her pause.

The barn.

The door's open, just slightly, and in the light of the half-full moon, she can just make out a shape roiling fluidly, like one of those old gods she's heard about but never quite seen with her own eyes. The bucket drops out of her hands, cold water dousing the hem of her nightgown. 

She looks down to assess the damage, hearing the barn door slam shut, chains rattling.

* * *

"I'm telling you," Kilana says, careful not to raise her voice, grateful for the breakfast on the stove crackling to mask her voice. "I saw it."

"You probably just imagined it," Keevan says, crossing his arms. "A trick of the light or something."

"It wasn't the light," she hisses. "It was one of those things."

"Those things don't exist anymore. You know that."

"After what I saw, I'm not too sure," Kilana says. "They're out there and Weyoun's hiding one of them."

"What, you think he's fucking it too?" Keevan teases.

Kilana slaps Keevan's chest with the back of her hand. He hisses and she can just imagine last night's scratches weeping gentle purple under his white shirt. For a moment, she thinks she can see the colour come through the cotton fabric, staining it.

But when she blinks, his shirt’s still white and Keevan’s staring at her strangely

* * *

The noise coming from the mold-covered barn woke them both, Kilana and Keevan unable to see each other in the dark. But there's a sort of howl that starts up and Kilana's the first to move, pulling on her boots. From the kitchen, she takes her peeling knife. Keevan follows after her without a word. 

The heat of the night makes everything humid, slimy to the touch and sluggish to move. A snake twines itself around Kilana's ankles before deciding she's not worth the trouble, slinking off into the waters of the swamp. 

"Do you think—"

Kilana hushes Keevan, the peeling knife catching the moonlight sharply.

Another howl from the barn sends the one-eyed tomcat crying and slinking off into the shadows, both Vorta reflected in that single yellow eye.

With a single strong pull, Kilana yanks the barn door open, hinges screaming a piercing shriek in the night.

Weyoun, that pale, quiet thing, glares at them both. A shimmer of ooze at the edge of the barn, squeezing between the cracks in the wood, is all the evidence Kilana needs. She raises the knife without a second thought, bringing it down and twisting, her rage emptying out with Weyoun's dark blood on the dirt floor of the barn, hands grasping at the gaping wound in his throat.

"We'll need a saw," Keevan notes calmly. 

Kilana turns, looking at Keevan. "Not a word."

"Not a word," he agrees.

Kilana pulls off her bloodied nightgown, the white fabric too stained to even bother washing. 

The tomcat slinks into the barn, leaping up on an empty shelf, black tail twitching in the dark. Calm as can be, the cat licks at his front paw, extending his needle-sharp claws in the night air.

* * *

It's easier work between the two of them. Kilana brings the cleaver from the kitchen and Keevan shoves an empty trunk into the barn. She carves, he breaks the bones, they load the trunk. When all's said and done, the dirt in the barn is soaked in blood and Keevan takes his time raking over the dirt, turning over new earth with the old until there's hardly a stain. Kilana washes the blood off herself, dresses in black, buttoning her blouse to the throat. She loads the trunk into the backseat of the old car with some difficulty.

Keevan drives them down the gravel road and into the swamp, speeding down the road until it gives way to dirt. When they pass a sign advising Drive safe. The life you save may be your own, Kilana turns, looking at the trunk in the backseat, watching it slide as Keevan swears, swearing as he swerves around a fallen tree. 

The headlight—just one, the other's cracked and been cracked for years—cuts a single silver beam, glancing off the muddy road, the shine bright enough that Kilana thinks they're going to be caught, gripping Keevan's arm.

"Calm the fuck down," he hisses.

"Sorry," she whispers. "You're sure this is the best idea?"

Keevan sighs and Kilana can just imagine him rolling his eyes at her. He reaches over, switching on the radio. "Find something to listen to."

Kilana reaches over, trying to tune into a station that's more than just static. They pass old, rusted pipes and oil pumps, sinking into the black water. When Kilana finds a station—an AM station—it's a talk show hosted by a minister.

"On this fine night, we read what the lord tells us, and he tells us that murderin', lyin', envyin'," the pastor says, a rusting on the radio signalling him shuffling around notes, "schemin', screwin' around, and doin' evil against each other is a ticket to hell."

Keevan laughs and Kilana wishes the volume knob actually worked so she could turn the sermon down. 

"But, if you know someone strugglin' with the devil in 'em, you can call in," the pastor continues droning on, "and if you donate twenty dollars and tell us who needs to feel the Spirit in 'em, and we'll pray to set 'em right this Sunday, lay hands on them so they may be brought back to the lord."

Kilana feels her hands shaking, folding them in her lap.

"This week's prayers, which we're all prayin' hard for to make 'em well again—"

Her hands shake so badly it takes a few times for her to switch off the radio before the pastor can begin rattling off names. 

"I liked it," Keevan says. "It's, what, sixty between us? Eighty?"

Kilana shakes her head, looking out the window at the darkness beyond. when the car comes to a halt, she looks over at Keevan.

"Here," he says softly. 

"You're sure?" Kilana asks, looking over her shoulder. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but she thinks the trunk's begun leaking onto the backseat.

"Here's right where we need to be." Keevan gets out, leaving Kilana in the car. "We've got options, you know."

Kilana sighs. "I know."

The water’s full of those deep rumbles, mating calls of the gators reverberating in their chests. And the trees overhead scream just as loud.

Keevan kneels by the road, picking up a stone the size of his fist. He skips it along the swamp's murky water. At at once, the noises stop. A duck takes flight, the flap of wings startling them both, Kilana clutching the dashboard of the car, nearly breaking her nails off.

There’s a shape moving under the dark surface, disturbing the algae and moss. There's a single dark eye that opens, taking in the Vorta, debating whether or not to lunge, drag him under the dark and lonely waters. Instead, the gator lifts himself up on land, black scales catching the faint moonlight filtering through the trees and the moss, glistening on the wet shore. The gator’s mouth stays resolutely shut in spite of the hot and sticky night.

Keevan unlatches the trunk, pulling out the limbs. The scent of sticky-sweet blood in the air is enough to incite a mouth open, maw full of yellow and sharp teeth, more than ready to receive.   
Kilana watches the perfect arc, flesh and tossed into the gator's mouth as if it were a doll’s arm, hears the crunch off bone.

"Get some rocks," Keevan tells her. "We gotta sink the trunk too."

Kilana gets out of the car, nudging the stones with the toe of her boot, picking up the largest ones first while the gator keeps cracking bone, slurping until the largest pieces of evidence are gone.

With the trunk empty except her bloody nightgown, Kilana loads the stones into it, hoping the weight will be enough.

Together, Keevan and Kilana throw it into the murky water. For a moment, it doesn't sink, simply resting on the surface. But the gator nudges it, investigating and that's all the push it needs. The water seeps in, the trunk sinking down to the bottom, bloated with murk and stuck in the silt. Keevan dusts off his hands. 

"It's done," he tells her.

"Very," she agrees.

They drive back in silence, sleep late into the day and begin the chores without a word. While Kilana cooks up a meagre breakfast, Keevan pulls a jar of moonshine—clear as water—out of the cabinet, unscrewing the top. He drinks half the jar, offering Kilana a sip, but she shakes her head. 

The tomcat leaves a half-chewed rat on the porch, which Kilana, frustrated, throws as hard as she can, the rat sailing through the air, guts trailing out of its stiff belly, landing in the middle of the dirt road with a wet thump.

Keevan watches without a word, merely raising a brow, paused in the wood he’s been cutting. 

"It's disgusting," she defends, wiping her hands off on her long, white cotton skirt, smearing old blood the colour of rust on it. "Damn."

"A dead rat can't hurt you now," Keevan points out.

She storms back inside, slamming the crooked front door hard enough that it flings itself open, inviting the humidity and the heat and the call of cicadas inside through the screen door. She sweeps the floor, dust falling between the cracks, the wood creaking with every step.

The tomcat scratches at the door frame and Kilana opens the screen, trying to shoo it away. Instead, the tomcat slinks inside, calm as can be, leaping up on the couch Weyoun used to sleep on. The tomcat rolls himself onto his back, purring, staring at Kilana one-eyed. 

"Get out!"

The cat hisses, swiping a lazy paw in her direction.

Kilana grabs the cat by the neck, the tom hissing and spitting at her, trying to writhe out of her firm grasp. She opens the door, kicking the screen open, and tosses the cat out, black fur sprawling in the dirt. The tom turns, hissing at Kilana before slinking off to the shade of the barn.

* * *

Kilana peels apples for tonight's pie, seated in her chair on the porch. Keevan lounges on the sloped boards, taking the skins as Kilana separates them from the apple flesh, chewing them idly. 

Through the open doors, Keevan can see the tomcat rolling in the dirt, laying on his side to nap.

"Been thinking," he tells Kilana, "Maybe we could clean up that dumb church and use it for a toolshed."

"You just want to be away from me."

"Nah. Put the tools in there, maybe use the barn for a goat."

Kilana's hand slips and she digs the blade into her palm. Keevan raises a brow and, without a word, gets a rag, tying it tight around Kilana's hand.

"You win," he says. "We'll use the same old shed."

He takes the knife and the pail of apples, continuing to peel them while Kilana glares at the tomcat sprawling out in the sun, watching her with that one eye.

* * *

She wakes up cold, sweat making her hair and her nightgown cling to her. But it’s quiet, too quiet for a night this humid. It takes a moment to untangle herself from Keevan, who mumbles in his sleep, but turns over without waking up.

The house creaks and groans while Kilana slips on her boots, lacing them tight. Under each step, the floor squeaks loudly, loud enough that she thinks she might wake Keevan. 

But he doesn’t stir.

Kilana steps out of the house, wrapping her arms around her. She’d thought maybe being outside in the humid heat would warm her up, but instead her blood runs cold.

There’s a white blur, a figure maybe, shambling down the road. It’s the direction they drove to put Weyoun to rest.

She can’t stop watching the slow, shuffling steps. From this far away, the figure’s skin glows and each steps seems almost graceful, waltzing down the road. The figure’s nude, which makes her face heat up for a moment, glancing down at the porch, fixated on the uneven boards. 

When she looks up, the figure’s leapt, getting from the end of the road to leaning against the fence at the edge of the property. Her heart leaps into her throat, muffling her cry of shock.

Without a doubt, it’s Weyoun. Same slender body, same face, same intense eyes. 

He tilts his head at her. 

Kilana shivers all over, frozen in place. 

The tom-cat slithers out of the barn, stretching and winding his way across the yard to Weyoun, circling around and around his ankles until it seems the cat’s fur sloughs off. Each black strand is pressed back the colour draining to a sickly sort of gold. The thing’s no longer a cat but a pool, shimmering at Weyoun’s feet, clinging to his ankles.

When he looks up, his eyes aren’t gold, but that same sickly gold. He tilts his head in the opposite direction. His face is split into a wide grin from ear to ear with too many teeth.

Kilana turns but, before she can even touch the doorknob, Weyoun pounces.

* * *

Keevan reaches out instinctively, pulling the body next to him close. It takes him a moment to realize it’s too cold, but before he can open his eyes, he’s shushed.

“Go back to sleep,” Weyoun whispers, cold lips pressed to Keevan's temple.


End file.
